


Walking With Her Head Down

by rainy_fangirl



Series: Affairs of the Heart [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Biphobia, F/F, First Dates, Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 02:25:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14322498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainy_fangirl/pseuds/rainy_fangirl
Summary: He’s not happy because you are, you’re so undeniably happy you let the words ‘date with her’ slip. He’s not happy or sober and you know the effects of this well.





	Walking With Her Head Down

The reasons you fell for her are the same as the ones that make you want to curl up under a blanket and cry yourself dry at the mention of her name. 

 

She doesn’t care, which is what originally pushed you away, and eventually pulled you in. She doesn’t care, and you never wanted her pity, and she didn’t want yours. And yet, what you felt was real when she ignored you for months after what was supposed to be the first date of many.

 

Emotions, feelings between the two of you were always drawn out, things to be laughed at and vivisected to shreds. She could shred you with a glance, and you try to remain gentle as you fall.

 

The first of many, you liked her and the movie, she liked you and the movie, or so you thought. You hadn’t touched, but that was okay. She wasn’t a girl you needed to touch to know, and you didn’t want the memory of her on your skin when you go home, it will be too much.

 

Before, you had at best, a tentative friendship, not knowing or trusting each other well enough with hearts. She’s seen you fall before, and how none of them cared enough to stay or tell the truth. One in a long line. She told you that you were straight for the longest time, you didn’t tell her you bore the scars to prove you weren’t. 

 

She must’ve thought it was a joke, and was unprepared when you threw in her in the deep-end, because, goddammit, you needed her and all her nonexistent pity.

 

You were going to be careful, not too intense to scare her. She’s always reminded you of the stray cats of the city you grew up in: probably dangerous, you wouldn’t let one inside unless you wanted trouble, starved, unloved but lovable. You’re still the little girl who would spend her allowance at the store to buy cat food and hand feed it to whatever dared to cross the garden wall. 

 

He’s not happy when you get home, a giggly sort of happy, with painted nails and cherry blossom perfume. He’s not happy because he knows, for all he tries to give you the benefit of the doubt. He’s not happy because you are, you’re so undeniably happy you let the words ‘date with her’ slip. He’s not happy or sober and you know the effects of this well. Two years left, then you’re out, to a different end of the country, when you can experiment with binders, hairstyles, names, pronouns, or stick with what you have. Two years, then you can dig out your carefully folded bisexual flag, your pins, stickers, and t-shirts that you’ve kept hidden for all these years. He yells, you yell back. He puts his hands on you in ways that you know will leave bruises. You barricade the door later: chair, desk, dresser, as you’ve been doing since you were seven years old. 

 

The effects catch up with you later, when she calls to make sure you got home okay. You’re halfway through all the nighttime cough syrup it will take you to forget tonight when you pick up, your nightcap showing your true colors. You tell her everything, hoping she’ll understand you like she does math, that you’re something that can be fixed, solved. All she says is ‘oh’ and hangs up, and you swallow your rising stomach. 

 

She hosts parties, she does what she needs to get by, she doesn’t sit with you like she used to. Her face doesn’t light up when she sees you. She used to look at you the same way she looks at robots, or a well organized light board. You remember her hands brushing yours during builds, the way she followed you, softly and nervously around the workshop. You loved it when she talks to you about the things she loves, the midnight texts about quirky celebrity facts. 

 

For now, you wait, riding out the storm. Her friends tell you it could be anything. Your friends tell you it was a bad fit, the two of you two skittish to ever get close. You know they’re both probably right. You spend too long looking for funny things to send her, an excuse to talk, an excuse to make her smile, even if you’re not there to see it.


End file.
